Page 66 of Catnip, Claws, and Chaos

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Emily

Saturday morning, I wake to Logan's side of the bed already empty. The sheets still hold his warmth, though, so he can't have been gone long. I stretch languidly, enjoying the pleasant soreness from last night's activities. Who knew the stern, serious vet had such a creative imagination in the bedroom?

I roll from the bed, stealing his discarded T-shirt from yesterday. The soft cotton swallows me, hanging to mid-thigh and carrying his scent, a combination that shouldn't be as arousing as it is. My bare feet pad across the cold hardwood.

“Morning,” I call, emerging from the bedroom. Logan stands at the kitchen island, and the open floor plan allows me to appreciate his bare torso.

“Morning.” He extends a steaming mug. “Black with two sugars, right?”

The ceramic warms my palms as I accept his offering. “You know me.”

“I pay attention.” His lips quirk upward, a half-smile that still makes my stomach flutter ridiculously, like some lovesick teenager rather than a grown woman pushing twenty-three.

The coffee slides down my throat, rich and bittersweet. I sigh with contentment. “You've officially secured your position as my favorite person today.”

“Just today?” An eyebrow arches.

“Don't push your luck, Price.” I settle onto a barstool, legs swinging. “The day stretches before us. Plenty of time for you to annoy me.”

His gaze travels over me, from my tangled hair to my bare legs, lingering where the shirt's hem kisses my thighs. “You look good in my clothes.”

Heat blooms across my cheeks. After almost five weeks of sharing his bed, he still reduces me to blushing with nothing more than a look.

My stomach chooses that precise moment to growl loudly.

“Hungry?” Amusement dances in his voice.

“Starving.” I glance around expectantly. “What's for breakfast?”

Logan's brow furrows. “I didn't make anything. I thought we'd order in.”

“On our day off? That's boring.” Inspiration strikes, and I slide from the stool with newfound purpose. “I'll cook!”

“You cook?”

“How hard can it be?” I wave dismissively, confidence bolstered by sheer ignorance. “I've watched plenty of cooking shows.”

“Emily—”

“Nope!” I silence him with a finger against his lips. “Decision made. I'm making breakfast. Go relax or something. I've got this under control.”

Skepticism radiates from him, but he raises his hands in surrender. “All right. I'll be on the couch. Call if you need anything.”

“I won't need anything,” I assure him, already rummaging through cabinets. “This will be amazing.”

Twenty minutes later, I contemplate my life choices amid what can only be described as a culinary war zone. Flour covers every surface, including my hair and face. Eggshells are scattered on the countertop, and something sticky has somehow reached the ceiling.

“Everything okay over there?” Logan calls from the couch, where he's been pretending not to notice the increasingly concerning sounds emanating from the kitchen. I catch him peeking over his newspaper, lips twitching with suppressed laughter.

“Absolutely fine!” I lie through gritted teeth, vigorously adding milk to the mixture in my bowl. “Just putting the finishing touches on your gourmet breakfast!”

The batter plops onto the hot griddle with an ominous sizzle. Instead of spreading into an appetizing circle, it forms a stubbornly dense mound. I prod it with the spatula.

“Flatten, you bastard,” I mutter. The batter remains defiantly immobile. I press down with the spatula, which only results in the batter oozing through the slots. I crank the heat higher. If it won't spread, it'll cook faster.

Turning my attention to the bacon, I discover a new disaster in progress. Half the strips remain raw and rubbery, while the others have transformed into blackened carbon.

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